


A Life In Cardiff

by redeem147



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-14
Updated: 2011-08-14
Packaged: 2017-10-22 14:39:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/239127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redeem147/pseuds/redeem147
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of the maid from The Unquiet Dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Life In Cardiff

The three year-old girl tossed and turned in her tiny bed, dark hair plastered against the pale skin of her forehead. Suddenly, she sat up and screamed, a long piercing note.

Her mother was beside her like a shot, holding her close. "Oh, my darling, what is it; what's wrong?"

The girl couldn't answer, struggling to take in air in shallow gasps.

"Bad dream, my sweet one?"

The little girl nodded.

"There, there. All will be well. The Lord is with you. There, there."

******

Her mother crawled back in beside her father. "What's the trouble with her now?" he asked. "Screaming like as to wake the dead."

"She had a bad dream, is all. I held her and soothed her, and calmed her back to sleep."

"And prayed with her, I should hope," he added.

"Aye. Of course. And prayed with her. And for her. My poor lamb."

He propped up on one elbow and looked at his wife. "You coddle her, Bronwen."

"Perhaps," she sighed. "Perhaps."

*****

The eight year-old girl helped her mother with the baking, kneading the bread with small fists.

"How's your little friend? The one who's pup's gone missing."

"She's sad."

Her mother pulled down the oven door, stirring the coals with a poker. "Doesn't pay to make friends with animals. For the fields they are. Not to be brought into homes and slept with. Only leads to trouble."

"Her doggie is dead. She'll no find him."

 

Her mother stopped, closing the door slowly. Turned to her daughter, wonder on her face. "I had not heard that. She told you, did she?"

"No." The child pinched off a piece of dough and formed it into a small bun. "Dog's down the well. Her granny told me."

"Don't be daft, child." Her mother wiped her hands and took her daughter gently by the shoulders, looking into her eyes. "Her gran's been dead these seven years now."

"She told me about the dog."

"Hush. Now, shall we put currents in some of those?"

*****

Two days later the dog was found in the well. "Not a word of this to your father," her mother whispered. "To your father nor anyone else."

*****

The twelve year-old girl looked down at the coffins where her parents lay. Her red eyes had no more tears to shed. Everyone told her she'd been lucky to escape the flu that did them in. She did not feel lucky.

The man who owned the funeral parlour slipped his arm around her narrow shoulders. "Your parents left you with nothing, child. I, in my good nature, promised to take you in, in consideration of my friendship with your father. Dafydd was a good man."

"Yes, sir," the girl said quietly.

"I've generously provided this funeral for them."

"Yes sir."

"And now, you shall be like a daughter to me."

"Yes sir, Mr. Sneed." He smelled like rubbing alcohol and tobacco. Her nose crinkled at the scent, but still she did not cry. "You are a very kind and generous man, sir."

"Aye. That I am."

The next morning he gave her a maid's uniform and put her to work.

*****

The thirteen year-old girl scrubbed the kitchen floor. A knock on the back door brought her off her knees. Standing there was a lanky blond boy with a wooden crate and a lopsided grin. She tucked her hair behind her ear and blushed.

"I'm delivering these for my uncle, Mr. Jones. He's out with a bad back. Where should I put them, then?"

"Put them..." she pointed to the table. "There will do."

"I know you." He nodded his head and winked. "You're in my Sunday class. Or you were. You never talk, though."

"I don't go anymore. Mr. Sneed says I'm too old for such things."

He held out a hand. "I'm Geraint. I forget your name."

She left his hand hanging in the air. "Gwyneth," she replied, eyes cast down.

"Well, Gwyneth the quiet one, since you're not going to classes anymore, how would you like to spend a few hours with me next Sunday? I could pick you up after services."

"Oh, I don't think..." she started shyly.

"We could go walking on the heath. Bring something for lunch."

At that her eyes lit up and she looked at him and smiled. "I love to walk on the heath. It's so open, and free. To be honest, many a Sunday I went there instead of class. I'd be happy to..."

"Gwyneth," a stern voice came from the door to the hallway. "You be on about your business. There's work to be done in the basement. I need you to fetch me a bottle of alcohol."

She hurried out the room, but paused when she was out of sight, listening.

"You don't be hanging around her, Boyo," Mr. Sneed hissed at the lad. "She's not for the likes of you. Next time you bring supplies, you drop them and leave, or better yet, send your uncle. I know he's only malingering."

"Aye, Mr. Sneed."

"You hear me now. Leave Gwyneth alone."

"Yes sir."

Her eyes stung with tears at the sound of the back door closing. She had so few chances to make friends. She turned and ran towards the stairs, trying not to trip as she headed into the darkness. Once there, she groped for the needed bottle.

"Gwyneth," a voice called softly. A woman's voice.

"Y... yes," she answered, her hands starting to shake.

"Gwyneth, come closer." She could see the form under the archway. Blue swirling lights. Something like a face amid them. The bottle dropped from her grasp, shattering on the floor. She didn't notice.

"Who... who are you?"

"Come closer."

Slowly, she stepped towards the light. She could feel it, cold on her skin. Tingling. A bit like her mother's kiss. It was beautiful. "Are you an angel?"

"Would you like me to be? I am if you'd like me to be."

"Are you my guardian angel?"

The form shimmered. "Guardian angel. Yes. That sounds right. I am your guardian angel. And I am your friend."

*****

The fifteen year-old girl spent all the time she could in the basement, talking to her friends. For there were more than one, each more beautiful than the next. "You get used to it, I suppose, living with the dead. The bodies I mean. They can't hurt you."

"Sweeeet Gwyneth. Deeeear Gwyneth."

"It's the ones that have gone on. I see them all the time now. Not like you. Not blue, like you. Not beautiful, like you. But they talk to me. Tell me things. Sometimes... sometimes they tell me not to trust you."

"They lie."

"Yes. They lie."

******

The three year-old girl tossed and turned in her tiny bed. Her dream was a terrible dream. She was seeing through a grown woman's eyes, seeing strangers. A man and a woman, with kind faces. A word. ‘Gelth.' She was drowning in blue. Drowning in cold.

She sat up and screamed. A long, piercing note.


End file.
